The Descent

Though  he  couldn't  say  exactly  how,  Ike  was  certain  he  must  have  selected  each circumstance  leading  to  his  own  downfall.  And  yet  what  choices  had  his  daughter made  to  be  born  in  darkness  and  never  know  the  light  or  her  true  father  or  her  own

people?

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The  journey  down  was  a  journey  of  water  sounds.  Blindfolded,  Ali  passed  the  first number  of  days  listening  to  the  sea  scythe  by  as  amphibians  drew  their  raft  on.  The next   days   were   spent   descending  alongside  cascades   and  behind   immense   falls. Finally,  reaching  more  even  ground,  she  walked  across  streams  bridged  with  stones. The  water  was her thread.

They  kept  her  separate  from  the  two  mercenaries  who'd  been  captured  alive.  But on one  occasion  her  blindfold  slipped  and  she  saw  them  in  the  perpetual  twilight  cast by  phosphorescent  lichen.  The  men  were  bound  with  ropes  of  braided  rawhide,  and arrows  still  projected  from  their  wounds.  One  looked  at  Ali  with  horrified  eyes,  and she  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  for  his  benefit.  Then  her  hadal  escort  cinched  the blindfold  over  her  eyes  again,  and  they  went  on.  Only  later  did  Ali  realize  why  the mercenaries weren't  blindfolded, too. The  hadals didn't care if the two soldiers saw the path down, because neither would ever  have  the opportunity to climb back out.

That  was  the  beginning  of  her  hope.  They  weren't  going  to  kill  her  anytime  soon. Thinking of the two soldiers' certain fate, she felt guilty for her optimism. But Ali  clung to it with a greed  she'd  never  known.  It  had  never  occurred  to  her  before  how  base  a thing survival  was. There  was nothing heroic about it.

Prodded,  tugged,  carried,  pushed,  she  staggered  into  a  cavity  that  could  have  been the center  of her being. She wasn't harmed. They  didn't violate her. But she suffered. For one thing, she was famished, not that they  didn't try  to  feed  her.  Ali  refused  the meat  they  offered,  though.  The  monster  who  led  them  came  to  her.  'But  you  have  to eat, my  dear,' he said in perfect  King's English. 'How else will you finish the hajj?'

'I know where  the meat came from,' she answered. 'I knew those people.'

'Ah, of course. You're  not hungry enough.'

'Who are you?' she rasped.

'A pilgrim, like you.'

But   Ali   knew.   Before   the   blindfold,   she'd   seen   him   orchestrating   the   hadals, commanding them, delegating  tasks.  Even  without  such  evidence,  he  certainly  looked the  way  Satan  might,  with  his  cowled  brow  and  the  twist  of  asymmetrical  horns  and the  script  drawn  upon  his  flesh.  He  stood  taller  than  most  of  the  hadals,  and  earned more scars, and there  was  something  about  his  eyes  that  declared  a  knowledge  of  life she didn't want to know.

After  that, Ali was given a diet of insects and small fish. She forced it down.  The  trek went on. Her legs ached at night from striking against rocks.  Ali  welcomed  the  pain.  It was  a  way  not  to  mourn  for  a  while.  Perhaps  if  she'd  been  carrying  arrows  like  the mercenaries were,  it would have  been possible not to mourn at all.  But  the  reality  was always there,  waiting. Ike  was dead.

At  last  they  reached  the  remains  of  a  city  so  old  it  was  more  like  a  mountain  in collapse.  This   was   their   destination.  Ali  knew   because   they   finally   took   off   her blindfold and she was able to walk without being guided.

Weary,  frightened,  mesmerized,  Ali  picked  her  way  higher.  The  city  was  up  to  its neck in a tropical glacier of flowstone, which spun  off  a  faint  incandescence.  The  result was  less  light  than  gloom,  and  that  was  enough.  Ali  could  see  that  the  city  lay  at  the bottom of an enormous chasm. A slow mineral flood had all but swallowed much  of  the city,  but  many  of  the  structures  were  erect  and  honeycombed  with  rooms.  The  walls and colonnades were  embellished with  carved  animals  and  depictions  of  ancient  hadal life, all of it blended in subtle arabesques.

Debauched  by  time  and  geological  siege,  the  city  was  nevertheless  inhabited,  or  at least in use. To Ali's shock, thousands of hadals – tens of thousands, for  all  she  knew  –

had  come  to  rest  in  this  place.  Here  lay  the  answer  to  where  the  hadals  had  gone. From around the world, they  had poured down to this sanctuary.  Just as Ike  had  said, they  were  in flight. This was their exodus.

As  the  war  party  threaded  through  the  city,  Ali  saw  toddlers  resting  against  their mothers'  thighs,  exhausted  with  flu.  She  looked,  but  there  were  very  few  infants  or aged in the listless mob. Weapons of all types  lay on  the  ground,  apparently  too  heavy to lift.